


meet with monsters

by lymricks



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy fights the monsters too!, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Protective Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 12:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13613454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: Harrington stops. Billy watches all the blood drain out of Harrington’s face and there wasn’t much color there to start with. Harrington lifts the bat again, tries to get to his feet, lands back on his ass. “Billy,” he says again, but it’s desperate now, not relieved. “Billy,behind you!”Four times Hopper doesn't arrest Billy and one time he does.





	meet with monsters

**Author's Note:**

> I had _so much fun_ with this prompt, thanks anon!  <3
> 
> Let me not just meet with monsters / but let me love them also.  
> — Elisabeth Hewer, from “Finding Ariadne” in Wishing for Birds

It’s a Tuesday night, late, and Billy’s buzzing. His dad wasn’t home when he got there, Max was at the arcade, Susan was--who the fuck cares where Susan was, honestly--and so Billy had done his hair, thrown on the tightest jeans he could find, unbuttoned his shirt nearly all the way down and walked right out the front fucking door.

It’s too cold for the way he’s dressed. Too cold for the windows down, but the cold air is bracing where it hits his bare skin and he’s got one hand dangling out the window at a stop light. He’s watching the way the smoke from it curls up and the way the snowflakes melt when they hit his hands.

There are still so many days of school ahead of Billy. They seem to stretch out endlessly in front of him. He’s thinking of all the ways he’ll fuck them up, and it’s not resignation, exactly, the knowledge that he’ll fuck them up, it’s more like certainty that he’d never get them right. He might as well enjoy whatever fucking happens between now and then.

So it’s a little after 9pm and he doesn’t know where Max is, if Susan’s getting her or if she’s home alone, but no one had told him what to do and he has nowhere else to be and there’s no good fucking parties on a Tuesday so he’s making lazy loops of Hawkins, pressing his foot to the floor on the straight roads, letting the wind smack snowflakes cold against his cheeks. 

The stupid fucking stop light hasn’t changed yet, though. Billy pulls the cigarette back to his mouth, inhales long and slow, stares at the red light. “C’mon,” he mutters, letting his hand hang back out the window, drumming his fingers against the cold metal of the Camaro. “Come the fuck _on_ ,” he yells, turns the music in his car up as high as it can go.

He’s _buzzing_ with it, the energy of the night, like it’s crackling through the air.

Finally, the light turns green and Billy floors it, revels in the growl of his engine, the squeal of tires on pavement. He screams along to the music, tips his head back, feels loose and real and alive and--

And then Steve Harrington stumbles out in front of his car.

Billy has never hit the breaks so fast. His tires skid on snow-slick pavement, but Billy’s not used to driving in the snow, keeps leaning on the brake, turns the wheel wildly. He spins out, but doesn’t hit a still stumbling Harrington, comes to a stop facing the opposite direction, inches from a fucking fence. Stupid fucking cows.

Billy shoves the door open and jumps out of his car, holding the cigarette between two fingers. “What the _fuck_ , Harrington?” he shouts. “Are you fucking _stupid_? If there’s one single dent on my car I’m gonna fuck you up so bad--”

He stops talking when Harrington doesn’t start responding.

He’s just standing there. Even from the distance of the several feet between them, Billy can see that his hands are shaking, can see--

Is that _blood_?

“What the fuck?” Billy says, but it sounds different than it did a second ago. “What the fuck happened to you?”

And Harrington finally opens his mouth. He moves his lips a few times, but no sound comes out, and then he says, “Run.” He says, “We need to run.”

Billy pictures what a kid like Harrington could do to get his pretty face that fucked up, pictures the people who could have done it to him. Billy tosses his cigarette on the ground. The lit end hisses for half a second against the wet pavement, that’s how fucking quiet everything is in this shitthole town. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, how fucked up Harrington’s face is, it’s only been a few weeks since Billy himself did much worse. Somehow, though, the idea of someone else doing it, of _anyone else_ doing it, fills Billy with the kind of white-hot rage he attributes to his best fucking work.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” Billy growls, stalking over to Harrington and wrapping his fingers around his shoulder. Harrington flinches under the weight of the touch and Billy, who knows what it feels like when someone clasps an unknowing hand over bruised skin, shifts his hand so he’s holding Harrington’s upper arm instead, but he doesn’t let go. “Who the fuck did that to you, Harrington?”

Harrington’s eyes are wide and brown and impossibly afraid and they stare right into Billy’s, but they’re kind of vacant, like Harrington isn’t really seeing him. “We have to run,” Harrington says again, but his voice is vacant too, like an echo of itself. “We have to--we have to _run_.”

Billy would kind of like to stay and fuck someone up, whoever did this to Harrington, but when he pulls his fingers off Harrington’s coat they come away red. Billy frowns. The coat is black, wool, a nice peacoat and more appropriate for the weather than Billy’s beat up brown leather, but it also hides the stain to the wetness that Billy had mistaken for snow. Billy stares at his fingers. Harrington’s clothing is hiding something more than bruising.

So Billy would like to stay, but they don’t. He says, “Come on,” and Harrington stumbles along behind him, climbs into the Camaro, and Billy drives away, careful not to spin out again in the snow slick pavement.

Right before they round a corner, Billy glances in his rearview mirror, trying to see whoever it was who’d done this to Harrington--which, he’s still trying to decide why that makes him so fucking angry--but all he sees before he takes the turn and can’t see anything at all is a dog darting across the road.

For a while, there’s silence in the car. Harrington’s breathing is shallow, and when Billy finally glances over him he’s sagging against the window, eyes staring out. He looks alert, but also like he’s having trouble keeping himself upright. The whole thing is pretty unnerving. “Home?” Billy says, abrupt and too loud.

Harrington turns his gaze on Billy, but doesn’t answer.

“Home, Harrington. Am I taking you home?” He means, do you need to go to the hospital, but he doesn’t really want to say that out loud, or drive him there, honestly. It’s kind of far.

“Hopper,” Harrington says. It’s the first thing he’s said besides run. 

“You’re filing a police report?”

“No,” Harrington says, “Hopper’s cabin.” 

Billy doesn’t know where the fuck that is. 

Harrington clears his throat and his voice when he speaks again is a little bit stronger. “I can give you directions. Just drive. Fast.”

“Not a problem,” Billy says and even though the roads are slick and he’s not really used to driving in the snow, he puts his foot down on the gas and follows Harrington’s directions, gets him there quick.

He goes to get out of the car once they pull up, but Harrington shakes his head. “Thanks for the ride,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

Only he doesn’t, because Harrington gets out of the car, takes one step, and goes down hard on his knees. Billy moves without really thinking, is pulling Harrington up by one arm--the undamaged side--before he really even decides he’s going to do it. “C’mon,” Billy says, ducking down to get Harrington’s arm around his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Billy’s strong and it’s a fucking good thing, because by the time he’s banging on the cabin door, Harrington’s not even pretending to try and hold his own weight.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice calls. “No soliciting.”

“ _Hop_ ,” Harrington says, and it’s half groan half breath, and his voice still sounds like that weird echo of itself.

The door is ripped open and Billy, holding Harrington up, meets the hard expression on Hopper’s face and business end of his gun with no small amount of surprise. 

“What in god’s name--Hargrove, what did you do to him?”

Harrington’s head lulls against Billy’s shoulder. “Can we talk about this later?” Billy snaps. “He’s light, but he’s not that fucking light.”

Hopper steps aside. “Go to your room,” he says over his shoulder as he slams the door shut. Billy gets a glimpse of curly hair and a solemn face before a door shuts and he’s just staring at a plain wood.

“Where?” Billy says, hooking his arm a little tighter around Harrington’s waist and shifting his grip.

“The couch is fine,” Hopper says.

“He’s bleeding,” Billy warns.

Hopper stares at him. “Couch is still fine,” he says. 

Billy makes his way over to the couch and sets Harrington down on it as gently as he can. Harrington still groans, like now that he’s safe, off the side of the road, out of the dark woods, he remembers how much pain he’s in. Billy knows that feeling, too, the way it can suddenly hit you, how much you hurt. 

Once Harrington’s settled, Billy pulls away. “Billy?” Harrington says, eyes startling open, his hand shooting out to fist in Billy’s jacket.

“You’re fine, Harrington,” Billy says and then, when Harrington doesn’t let go, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes a second, but Harrington drops his shirt and lets his eyes close. Billy wants to tell Hopper that he needs to check out that fucking shoulder, that Harrington shouldn’t sleep if he has a concussion, that whoever did this is still out there, but he doesn’t get to say any of that, because Hopper moves so fast Billy doesn’t even see him coming.

One second, Billy’s straightening up from Harrington’s grip, the next Hopper’s slamming him chest first against the wall. “I told you the last time,” Hopper says while Billy thrashes in his grip. “If you laid a fucking finger on that kid again I was putting you in jail,” he’s got Billy’s wrists pinned to the small of his back. “Do I need to put you in cuffs or can you sit your ass down and not go anywhere?”

“It wasn’t me,” Billy says, “Fuck you. I didn’t do it. Get off me. _Fuck you_.”

“Original,” Hopper says. “I’m going to radio and get someone to have your folks meet us at the station.”

Billy’s stomach bottoms out. He was just trying to be nice. And now--and now-- “Fuck you,” he says again. “I’ll fucking run. I’ll fucking run and you won’t catch me. Fuck you. I didn’t fucking do anything to him!” Billy feels something at the edge of desperate, like he could claw his way out of this cabin with only his teeth if he has to.

“Billy Hargrove,” Hopper is saying. “You’re under arrest for--”

“Wasn’t him.” Harrington’s voice sucks all the air out of the room, all the sound out of it. Billy can’t hear anything over the rush in his ears, over the frantic sound of his breathing as he tries to break Hopper’s grip, he can’t hear anything over that except the sound of Harrington’s voice, tired, a little broken. “Wasn’t him,” Harrington repeats. “Hop. It’s--they’re back.”

Hopper lets go of him so suddenly that Billy slams his wrist against the wall hard enough that he hisses in pain. “What the _fuck_ ,” Billy says. “Who the fuck is back? What the fuck is going on?” but Hopper doesn’t look at him. He just looks at Harrington. Billy hesitates. He doesn’t know who they are, but he does know that someone needs to look at Harrington’s shoulder. “His--” Billy pauses. “His shoulder was bleeding through his coat.”

Hopper’s across the room in seconds, but his movements when he tugs off Harrington’s coat and pushes his t-shirt up are gentle. He’s blocking Billy’s view, so he doesn’t see whatever it is that makes Hopper’s shoulders go so rigid. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” Hopper breathes. “El!” he yells.

The bedroom door opens. Billy looks up to see curly hair, a solemn face, and dark eyes. “Jim?” says a little girl.

“Get a bowl of warm water. And a needle.” Billy flinches. That fucking sucks for Harrington. “Billy?” Billy looks up to find Hopper staring at him. “I need to get him cleaned up and then I need you to tell me what happened. What you saw.”

Billy wants to tell him to fuck off, but Hopper’s face is so serious that he bites down that urge and just nods. The little girl comes back then, holding a bowl of warm water, a towel, and a sewing kit.”

“El, find the lighter,” Hopper says, pulling a needle out. Billy shoves his hand in his pocket and flicks his open wordlessly, walking across the room so Hopper can put the needle into the flame. It’s close enough that he gets a good look at Harrington’s shoulder. It looks like someone’s taken a meat grinder to it. Billy has no idea what kind of person does that to someone like Harrington, but he’s got a rough idea of what he’s going to do to that person when he finds out.

The little girl--El, apparently--is staring at him. Billy glares at her and she smiles. “He is scared,” she says and Billy wonders what she thinks he’s fucking afraid of, but then she motions to Harrington. “Hold his hand,” she says.

“What?” Billy says.

“Hold his _hand_ ,” she insists, and then she grabs Billy’s wrists and half shoves him at Harrington. Billy is not fucking about this, but then Harrington’s eyes crack open and he sees Hopper with that needle and goes so fucking white. Billy doesn’t really think Harrington’s reaching for _him_ , but his hand shoots out and fists in Billy’s tshirt, and after a second Billy grabs it in both of his and squeezes. 

Billy’s seen someone get stitched up before. He’s no stranger to it, but he still finds himself looking away while Hopper does his best with the mess that is Harrington’s shoulder. When he’s done, Harrington still doesn’t let go of Billy.

The little girl says, “Sit _down_.” Billy knows an order when he hears one. He sits down. Harrington’s head falls back against his shoulder, curling a little from the snow that’s dried in it, and his breathing evens out. Billy remembers how his night started, driving too fast, enjoying some fucking freedom, and wonders what the fuck he’s walked into.

Hopper sits down on the coffee table. After a second, the little girl does too, a perfect imitation of him. Billy’s arm feels awkward, so after a brief, emotional debate about it, he slings it around Harrington’s shoulders, careful about the bandaged one and to not disrupt Harrington as he sleeps.

“Tell me where you were,” Hopper says. “And _exactly_ what happened.”

So Billy does, carefully, and with the main character in his story pressed loose and warm against his side. 

“And you didn’t see anyone? Nothing that could have done this?” Hopper presses.

“No,” Billy says.

“Lie,” says the girl, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

Billy glares at her, then remembers. “A dog,” he says. “I think I saw a dog.”

Hopper’s face goes tight. “Harrington will stay here tonight,” he says. “His parents are out of town, anyway,” he adds. “You will get in your car and go straight home, do you understand me?”

Billy really doesn’t understand him--or what the fuck is going on--and he’s honestly not totally sure how he feels about leaving Harrington, but he knows an order when he hears one. He pulls away slowly, settles Harrington down carefully against the couch. The girl moves toward him instantly, smoothing the hair out of Harrington’s face and frowning.

Hopper motions him toward the door. When they step out onto the porch, Billy notices that his hand is resting on his gun. “You all right?” Hopper asks.

“I’m not the one who got jumped in the woods by some assholes,” Billy says. “This has happened before? To him? Who the fuck was it?”

“I can’t say,” Hopper says, which isn’t _I don’t know_ , but Billy suspects he’s meant to think that Hopper means he doesn’t know. He’s not stupid, though. There’s something Hopper isn’t telling him. “You did a good thing tonight, Hargrove,” Hopper adds, then, “Billy.”

“Sure,” Billy says, shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s still snowing gently, soft downy white coating the grass and gravelly drive up to the cabin.

“And I’m sorry,” Hopper adds. “About shoving you around,” he’s looking at Billy closely, and Billy cuts a glance away. That’s a knowing look, Billy thinks. That’s a look that says Hopper has a rough idea about what goes on in the Hargrove house. Billy sets his jaw. “I’m not askin’ any questions, Billy,” Hopper says. “Just saying I’m sorry about it.”

Billy doesn’t want to ask his next question, but he needs to. “Is he gonna be all right?”

“Yeah,” Hopper says. “He’ll be at school tomorrow. You can see him then.”

Billy nods. 

“You need to go straight home,” Hopper adds. “If I find out you didn’t, then I _am_ putting you under arrest. We clear?”

“Yes,” Billy says, adds after a heartbeat, “Sir.”

Hopper runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve met my daughter,” he says. “At that point, people mostly just call me Hop. Steer clear of any dogs you might see tonight, Billy.”

“All right,” Billy says. “Night.”

“Yeah,” Hopper says. He stands on the porch until Billy’s in his car. He’s still standing there, hand on his gun, when Billy finally loses sight of him around a curve in the road. 

~

Harrington _is_ in school the next day, but he doesn’t say anything to Billy at all. Billy doesn’t really get it. Last night, Harrington was falling asleep on his shoulder, but today he’s huddled in the hallway with the Princess Wheeler and Byers. He won’t meet Billy’s gaze whenever Billy tries to catch his eye. Which, fine. What the fuck ever. Billy doesn’t fucking care.

Harrington is jumpy as fuck, though. Nearly climbs the wall when Tommy slams his locker shut just before practice that day. His gaze darts around, alert, and he looks a little wrecked if Billy’s really looking for it. No one else seems to notice.

He can corner Harrington when they go to pick the kids up, though. He always runs into him there. At least there, in the middle school parking lot, Harrington won’t be able to escape. He’ll have all those little dipshits trying to crawl all over him in the car.

Billy’s focused on that while they run layup drills, but not so focused that he doesn’t notice the number of times Harrington fucking drops the ball. Just fucks up. Just can’t play right. He’s favoring his shoulder, and Billy’s had enough homemade stitches himself to know how much they can fucking hurt.

Billy’s staring at him, spends a lot of practice trying to see if he can get Harrington to switch to the other team. Billy’s playing shirts today, too much telltale bruising on his abdomen to risk skins, but he wants a good look at Harrington’s shoulder. He can’t seem to goad Harrington to the other team, can’t get any reaction out of him at all, so Billy gives up.

The coach sorts them for a scrimmage, and Billy’s on his second drive with a clear plan for the hoop, when he hears the gym doors slam open. He doesn’t turn around, too focused, but then a voice says, “ _Billy_ ,” and it catches on a sob, and Billy drops the ball and spins around.

It’s Max. She’s standing there, face red as her hair. Even from halfway across the gym, Billy can see the tear tracks on her cheeks. 

Billy and Max will never have what Byers and his brother have, or even the half close-ness of Wheeler and her brother, but they’ve gotten to know each other better these last few weeks, and Billy doesn’t even need to think about it before he’s running across the gym to her.

He’s thinking he’ll just grab her shoulder or ask her what’s wrong, or something, but when he comes to a stop in front of her, she sobs his name again and throws her arms around him, pressing her face into his shirt. Billy does not understand what is fucking happening, but it’s been a weird like, twenty hours of his fucking life.

He gets an arm around her shoulder and is less surprised than he should be when he looks up and Harrington is right there. Max isn’t a crier, and if Billy knows that, Harrington must.

“Max,” Harrington says, his voice a little desperate. “Where is everyone else? What happened? Where are they?”

“Fuck off, Harrington,” Billy snaps. “Give her a fucking second.”

“She doesn’t have a second, Billy, I need to know if--if--”

Four running boys stumble through the door then. None of them are crying, but their eyes are all wild. “We saw!” they’re shouting. “Steve! We saw!”

“Where?” Harrington demands, turning away from where Max is still clinging to Billy, or maybe where Billy is clinging to Max.

“At the school,” Dustin says, even as the coach is yelling about what is happening, someone fill him in. “They tried to get Max. We ran, but we thought it was chasing us and we figured here was safe--”

Billy pushes Max off him and stares down at her. “What tried to get you? Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” she says. She swallows hard. “Sorry,” she adds, turning to her friends and to Harrington. “It just scared me.” She wipes at her face and steps away from Billy.

“Well this has been real cute,” says a voice Billy has to search out. Some stupid, what the fuck ever kid who goes to parties and tries to act big. “But if that snot-nosed little bitch is done, we were in the middle of a game?”

It’s the same anger, white-hot, that courses through Billy once he registers the sentence, the same anger he’d felt when he wondered who had fucked up Harrington’s face. Only this is a little more acidic, more biting. It has a harder edge. With Harrington, the wondering why he cared had watered that shit down. With Max, with his little fucking (step) sister, Billy doesn’t have a single goddamn question about the reason he’s so pissed.

He and Max may not be best friends, but no fucking piece of shit Hawkins high basketball player is going to call her a _bitch_ like that.

Todd. His name is Todd. Billy remembers just as his knuckles connect with flesh, as he sends Todd sprawling with a hit. He’s not fucking done, though. He levels Todd, but it isn’t fucking enough, Billy’s going to throttle him, to crush him, this kid who thinks he has a right to call Max a bitch, to open his fucking hick mouth--

Someone yanks him off and Billy comes up flailing, growling, teeth bared and red tinged from whatever paltry hits Todd’s landed. Billy has blood in his mouth. He spits it onto the court. His knuckles, he thinks dimly, eyes still laser focused on Todd, are bleeding.

It’s Hopper who’d pulled him off. Hopper whose grip Billy is thrashing in. Billy vaguely remembers the sound of arriving sirens, but in his defense, there’d been some other shit going on. Namely Todd. Who he’s going to fucking _destroy_ once Hopper lets him go.

“Second time in two days, kid,” Hopper says, low and close to Billy’s ear.

“Fuck you,” Billy answers. “What’re you smiling about?” he snarls, looking up at Todd. “I’m going to fuck you up.”

“Can you take him?” Hopper says and Billy doesn’t understand what the fuck he’s talking about until another arm is around his waist. Billy doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Harrington. He smells the same as he did last night, crisp like the air on a cold morning, a little sweaty underneath it, something primal. Billy stops thrashing once that arm settles around his waist. Hopper lets go. “Now,” Hopper says. “I ought to arrest the both of you.”

“Arrest that piece of trash,” Todd says, sounding a little fucking high and mighty for someone pinching his bleeding nose. “He attacked me.”

“And I’d do it again,” Billy says, glaring. 

“Not helping,” Harrington says, voice quiet in Billy’s ear, low, but not mean. A little gentle.

Billy tugs at Harrington’s grip, can hear Harrington hiss and feel him wince. When Billy glances over his shoulder, there’s blood blooming on Harrington’s t-shirt where his stitches must’ve split. Billy stills in his grip, stops tugging, but he doesn’t stop glaring at Todd.

“Thing is,” Hopper says conversationally. “I’d have to arrest both of you. Take witness statements. It might be in the papers.”

“Fuck you and _fuck him_ ,” Billy says. He’s thinking of the way Max’s eyes go bright bright blue when she cries.

“The papers?” Todd asks. His nose has stopped bleeding. He drags his forearm across it, smears ugly red across his skin.

“Oh definitely,” Hopper says. “And once it’s in the papers, well, there’s no telling who might read it.”

Billy watches Todd shift his weight from foot to foot, a little nervous. “Fine,” he says, harsh, tired. “Nevermind.”

He spins on his heel and storms off the court. Billy watches everyone else, coach included, trail after him. He realizes, then, that the response time was awfully fucking quick for a high school fight.

Harrington’s arm is still around his waist, even though Billy isn’t trying to get away, even though the person he’d been fighting has disappeared into the locker room.

“How many?” Hopper says. Billy’s surprised to see that he’s looking at the kids.

“Maybe three,” Nancy’s little brother says. Mike, Billy remembers. His name is mike. “Hard to tell. They moved fast.”

“Did any of you get hurt?” Hopper asks.

“No,” Dustin says quickly. “But they really went for Max. It’s why--that’s why I called.”

Hopper turns, and for a second Billy thinks he’s staring at him, but his eyes aren’t really focused. That means he’s looking at Harrington. “Well,” Hopper says. “Shit.”

Billy feels Harrington nod. “What do we do?” Harrington says.

“We?” Hopper sighs. “We do nothing. You get them home. I call--” he stops and flicks his gaze to Billy. “I call my dog guy.”

“This is still about the fucking dogs?” Billy asks. “You expect me to believe a _dog_ did this to him?” he pulls out of Harrington’s grip and jabs just next to where he knows the stitches are. There’s a spotty patch of blood on Harrington’s t-shirt. Harrington flinches. “You expect me to believe a dog scared her that bad?” he looks at Max who crosses her arms and steps closer to Lucas.

“Shut up, Billy,” Max says.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything, kid,” Hopper says, which isn’t quite _son_ and so it doesn’t rankle. “I expect you to recognize that shit is hitting the fan and I expect you to get your sister home. Right now. Can you handle that?”

They aren’t telling him something and Billy isn’t a big fan of secrets, but Hopper’s not quite lying, either. Billy’s pretty sure he doesn’t get nearly enough credit for being as fucking smart as he is, because he wants to argue and yell and punch, but he keeps his mouth shut and invests his silence in at some point being told the truth. It’s only been two fucking days. Whatever’s going on, Billy’s pretty sure he’s going to know it by the end of the fucking week.

“Yes,” Billy says. “Sir.”

“You can call me Hop, Billy,” Hopper says.

And Max opens her big, stupid, fucking mouth and says, “His dad makes him say Sir” and Billy feels his jaw drop as he turns to look at her, because he can’t actually believe she fucking said it, is honestly a little surprised she knows. “What?” Max says, crossing her arms. “It’s fucking true, Billy.”

Not even two minutes ago, Billy was ready to kill for her. Now he’s thinking about killing her.

“You can call me Hop,” Hopper repeats, voice calm, but knowing all the same.

Harrington’s not holding him anymore, but he’s standing really fucking close. Billy can feel his eyes on the side of his face. “Let’s go home, Maxine,” he says. “Harrington. You’ve got--” he glances at the assorted children. “The rest of them?”

Harrington’s still staring at him. Billy is aware, then, of a little fading bruising around his temples, of the patchwork of bruises across his stomach that kept him wearing a shirt in practice today, but that Harrington could have seen in the locker room, or if Billy’s shirt rode up during practice.

This has been an emotional roller coaster of a fucking afternoon, but he never felt anything worse than he feels right the fuck now, with Harrington’s gaze boring holes through his skin. He thinks he knows something, and Billy, hackles raised, thinks that he fucking _doesn’t_.

“We’re leaving,” he says before Harrington can actually answer. Billy goes for casual, throws an arm around Max’s shoulders and tugs her out of the gym. He makes her wait so he can grab his bag, jacket, and keys out of the locker room, and then they’re driving home.

He’s pissed at her about the fucking comment, but he still asks--after he’s lit a cigarette and rolled down the window-- “You good?”

She nods, which isn’t really an answer, but Billy guesses he never answers that question honestly either.

~

“Billy!”

Susan’s voice rings out through the house and Billy heaves a sigh. It’s _disrespectful_ not to answer her. “Yes?” he says, poking his head around the door. His dad isn’t home, but Billy can never be sure she won’t mention something to him later.

“Phone’s for you. It sounds important.”

Billy’s not expecting a phone call. Max is out, has been for hours, so it’s maybe her asking for a ride, but Susan would know her own daughter’s voice. At least, he hopes that she would.

He wanders toward her, says thanks, presses the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Act normal,” is the first thing he hears. It takes him a second to place the voice. Dustin. “You need to come to Pine Tree Lane right now.”

“Why?”

“Billy,” Dustin hisses, and his voice shakes a little. “I don’t know who else to call.”

It’s that, more than anything, that puts Billy on edge. “Is Max hurt?”

Dustin hesitates, Billy can hear him start to talk and then stop. “Uh, no.”

“Then call Byers. Or Wheeler. I’m not your babysitter.”

“I can’t call them because they’re in the city talking to a guy--” Dustin stops, makes a frustrated sound. “He said I could call _you_ , son of a bitch--I’m wasting time--”

“Who said?” Billy demands, sharp. Susan looks at him, curious, and he evens out his tone, smiles at her like nothing at all is going on. “Who said?”

“Steve,” Dustin says.

Billy feels that weird trill of fear run through his body, feels urgency building up in his bones. “What happened?”

“I’m not with him,” Dustin says. “He said it has to be a car. I don’t know what happened, okay, he just came on the radio and said you, it could be you.”

“Where?”

“Pine Tree Lane! I already said that!”

Pine Tree Lane is a long, empty road, shrouded on both sides by forest. Billy doesn’t drive it often. It’s the kind of road that feels foreign, wrong, that makes him miss the warm sunlight and towering trees of Indiana. He knows enough to know it stretches nearly two miles along the edges of town. Two miles of dark trees. Somewhere, Harrington is there, saying Billy has to come get him.

“Did you call Hop?” Billy asks in half a whisper, doesn’t want Susan to know he’s asking about cops.

“He’s kind of in the middle of something else,” Dustin says. He’s hedging, but his voice still sounds terrified and Billy knows that little kids sound terrified of a lot of fucking things, but he also knows that something is going on. He thinks of Max crying yesterday in basketball practice. He thinks of the stitches in Harrington’s shoulder. “Are you going to do it or not?” Dustin demands.

“Yeah, I’m going. He has the walkie?”

“Yes, yeah, yes.”

“I’ll let you know when I find him.” Billy hangs up the phone and Susan is staring at him.

“Did one of your school friends lose their dog?” she asks. She’s been trying to be _nice_ to him since they moved here. Billy doesn’t have the time for it. 

“Yeah,” he says, feeling his pockets for his keys.

“It’s good that it still has its--what did you call it, a walkie? Having the leash will make people try and help it.”

“Right,” Billy says. “Well. I’m gonna go--”

“Of course! Good luck finding the dog!”

Billy’s half running out the door, not really sure what’s going on, but definitely sure he doesn’t want to find any of the fucking dogs that have been in Hawkins the last few fucking days. At the last second, he ducks around the house and grabs a crowbar from the box out back where his dad keeps shit he doesn’t want to keep in the house.

There’s a moment where he thinks he should do something dramatic, like pause for breath or to steel himself, but he thinks of Harrington calling Dustin to call him for help on that fucking dark, creepy road and he just throws himself in the Camaro and drives.

Billy finds the beamer about three quarters of a mile up the road, but when he pulls over and gets out to look inside it, there’s no sign of Harrington. The doors and windows are closed and the car is locked. Billy casts his gaze around him, the empty road, the trees. It’s so fucking dark, here. Billy wishes he’d thought to bring a flashlight. The moon’s out, so it’s not impossible to see, but he almost wishes it wasn’t. Something about the moonlight in the trees, the shadows, puts Billy on edge, makes him grip the crowbar tighter.

He walks around Harrington’s car with slow, careful steps. Off the edge of the road, down the small hill, and then he’s stepping into the trees. He feels his pocket with his free hand, checks to make sure he has his car keys, isn’t really sure why he does it.

Ten steps in, and Billy feels like he’s a mile away from the road, like he couldn’t get back if he tried. Twenty steps in and the darkness is overwhelming. It’s a swallowed-up feeling, like the air is too thick to breathe, like the sounds of the forest are amplified, like the deep, bass beat of his heart is a warning.

Billy keeps sweeping his eyes back and forth as he walks, stumbling toward lumps on the ground that turn out to be rocks, or piles of leaves, or old stumps of damaged trees. He wonders what took them down, if it was lightning or a strong wind or something else all together. Billy keeps his fingers tight around the crowbar and wishes he had a fucking walkie, some connection to civilization to lean on. He wishes he hadn’t see Harrington that night, with the bite taken out of his shoulder. Billy stops dead in his tracks at that thought, at the certainty of it, that he thinks--no, _knows_ \--that it was a _bite_. A person didn’t fucking do that to Harrington.

Billy thinks of the dog he watched in his rearview mirror and feels fear ticking up his spine, feels the forest pressing down around him like a tunnel, the swallowed-up feeling edging over his skin.

He takes a slow, deep drag of air into his lungs and then he keeps walking. At some point, he stops counting steps. Once he’s over a hundred it stops being a soothing reminder of how close he is to the road. He keeps his eyes moving, back and forth back and forth. He’s starting to wonder what he’s going to do if he can’t find Harrington. He’ll have to drive all the way back into town. Who knows what could happen in the time it’ll take him. Jesus, he should have gone and gotten a walkie from one of the--

A rustling in the leaves has Billy stopping dead in his tracks, all his hackles raised, his crowbar swinging back and forth by his side, ready. There’s silence. Then the rustling sound, like someone scrambling backwards, a soft, wet gasp for air.

Billy runs. He runs toward the sound, stumbles around a tree, turns and then--

It’s Harrington. There’s blood on his face again and he’s got an arm curled tight around his stomach, his eyes are wide, his back is against a tree, he’s holding a bat covered in fucking _nails_ in front of him in one shaking hand. What the actual fuck is going on? Billy has so many fucking questions, but they need to get out of the woods, first, get away from the darkness and moonlight, escape this swallowed-up feeling.

“Harrington,” Billy says, stopping a few feet away from him. He holds both hands up, but doesn’t let go of the crowbar. “Hey. Harrington. Steve. It’s me. It’s just me. It’s Billy.”

He watches all the tension drain out of Harrington’s shoulders. He starts to lower the bat. “Billy,” he breathes out, “Thank god I--”

Harrington stops. Billy watches all the blood drain out of Harrington’s face and there wasn’t much color there to start with. Harrington lifts the bat again, tries to get to his feet, lands back on his ass. “Billy,” he says again, but it’s desperate now, not relieved. “Billy, _behind you_!”

Billy doesn’t even really think about it. He listens a second to the rustling behind him, lifts the crowbar, spins around and _swings_.

Billy doesn’t really understand the thing that he connects with. The sound it makes is--is fucking _unholy_ and Billy hasn’t been religious for a long goddamn time. It goes down, but starts to get back up, and it’s tough to get a clear look at it beyond that it’s _wrong_ , it’s so fucking wrong, it can’t be real. It moves toward him and Billy swings again, aims for the head, hits it again and again and again.

It doesn’t get back up.

“Harrington,” he says slowly, turning back around. He can’t look at that thing anymore. “What the fuck was that?”

Harrington doesn’t answer him though, because he’s sitting there with his back pressed against that tree, the bat raised in the face of another _thing_ just outside of his reach. This one makes the sound too, the one that makes Billy feel _wrong_ hearing it. 

Then its face--Billy can’t even fucking describe it--its face just _opens up_. He doesn’t know what that means, really, but Harrington looks scared, then. Not just afraid, not like he had when Billy walked up, but like he’s truly fucking terrified.

That white-hot anger hits Billy again. He lets it course through him, leans into it. This thing, these _things_ are what had done that to Harrington the other night. They’re giving it another go. He’s not going to fucking _let them_.

Billy runs at it swinging. He thinks maybe it didn’t really know he was there because it doesn’t turn around, it just makes that sound as it--dies? Is it dead? Billy isn’t sure, but it’s head looks fucked up and Billy’s got goo on him, got something gross and like blood on his hands and his crowbar.

Billy kicks it once, twice, three times, but it doesn’t move or even twitch. “Steve,” he says, dropping down next to Harrington. Billy wipes his hands on his jeans before he reaches for him, gets his hands on Harrington’s shoulder. “Hey, are you with me? What the fuck was that? What were those--”

“We have to go,” Harrington says. “I can’t--my leg. I rolled my _fucking ankle_. I’m such an idiot. We have to go.”

Billy scrambles to his feet and holds out an arm, pulls Harrington up and gets an arm around his waist. “What have I fucking told you about planting your feet?” he says, and they hobble walk around the two bodies of the--the things.

Harrington’s warm where Billy’s holding him, trembling, too, though he’s trying to hide it. Billy keeps a tight grip on him and they don’t speak after that, both of them listening to the sounds in the forest in case anything else is coming. They make it back to the cars finally. “Can you drive?” Billy asks. Harrington shakes his head. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “God fucking _fuck_.”

“It’s all right,” Billy says. “I’ll drive. Come on.”

For the second time in three days, Billy loads an injured Harrington into the passenger’s seat of the Camaro. Billy doesn’t waste any time running back around the car, diving into it, and speeding away from the fucking forest and the trees. He makes it back to town in record fucking time.

They go to Harrington’s house because they can’t figure out where the walkie is and it’s only a five minute drive. That freaks Billy out, a little, how close they are to those things, but it’s not like they can drive to Billy’s place and hide there. He wishes they’d just grabbed the walkie. It must be in those woods somewhere and Billy can’t fucking imagine going back into the trees to look for it. He helps Harrington to the kitchen, gets a phone for him so he can call Dustin, and then goes to the sink to wash goo and blood off his hands.

“Hi Mrs. Henderson,” Harrington says. Billy looks up and Harrington rolls his eyes. “I know it’s late for a school night, but Dustin is expecti-- _Dustin_ don’t yell at your mom like that, dipshit, she’s just being a good mom. Tell her you’re sorry,” Harrington pauses, “No, I’m not answering a single fucking question until you _apologize to your mother_. I’ll wait.”

Billy laughs. He can’t help it. He’s got monster goo--monster? Is that what those were? He doesn’t know what else you’d call them--on his hands and Harrington’s still shaking a little, adrenaline and fear and something else so obvious on his face and he’s still taking the time to scold Dustin for being rude to his mother. Billy laughs because he needs to do something. Harrington grins back at him.

“Better. Hi. Yeah we’re fine. Are all the kids ok?” As Harrington talks, Billy digs around until he finds some dish towels. He gets them wet in the sink, warm water, and walks over to stand next to Harrington. “That’s good,” Harrington’s saying. “There were four. We need a plan--” Harrington stops suddenly, hisses, because Billy’s standing there next to where Harrington’s sitting on the counter, and honestly Billy himself is a little bit surprised at what’s going on. What’s going on is that Billy, warm, damp dish towel in hand, is _dabbing at the cuts on Harrington’s face_.

He makes a face at Harrington. Harrington makes a face back. Billy keeps dabbing, wiping blood off Harrington’s cheek, from under his eye, dabbing at dried blood around his temple to see the cut isn’t all that bad. There’s a long silent minute where Billy refuses to meet Harrington’s gaze again and just keeps dabbing away. “Sorry,” Harrington says to whatever Dustin must yell at him. “I need to talk to Hopper. You need to go to bed. Keep the doors locked. Yeah,” he pauses, Billy can feel his eyes on him, “I love you too, you sappy dipshit. Go to bed. We all have school tomorrow.”

Harrington hangs up the phone just as Billy’s fingertips pull down at the collar of his shirt. Billy drags the towel over Harrington’s collarbone, wiping away dirt and blood. Harrington’s skin is warm to the touch. He shivers, which feels different from the trembling earlier, and Billy should know, he’s touched Harrington through both.

Billy looks up as he sets the towel down. He meets Harrington’s gaze. “I need to get your car.”

“No fucking way,” Harrington says, voice sharp. “We can get it tomorrow. No fucking way.”

Billy nods and then gets an arm around Harrington’s waist to help him hop down off the counter. He probably doesn’t need to. Harrington can hop on his good foot. A rolled ankle fucking sucks, but it’ll be fine tomorrow and it definitely isn’t the end of the world, but Billy helps him off the counter anyway, keeps his arm around Harrington’s waist as they hobble away from the kitchen.

“You want to go to your room?” Billy asks. He pretends he doesn’t hear the hitch in Harrington’s breath or see the flush that blooms across his cheeks.

“The couch,” Harrington says after a second. “I don’t--” he pauses. “I don’t like sleeping upstairs when the house is this empty. It feels too far from the door.”

It’s 10pm on a school night. Billy’s dad will be home by now and the words that Harrington just said to him feel way too fucking honest. Billy gets him to the couch. “Do you want me to get you--like, clean clothes?” he asks, and he feels like they’re foreign words in his mouth, like he’s saying things out loud that he’s not used to the taste of.

Harrington looks like he’s going to say no, but then he glances down at his sweater, at the blood on him. He grimaces. “Actually, yeah,” he says. “That would be--that would be good. There’s sweatpants and a t-shirt on my bed probably.”

Billy nods, wordless, and runs upstairs to get them. It takes him a second of poking his heads in rooms to find Harrington’s, and this place is a fucking palace. Billy can’t believe it, looking at all the shit this family has, that they can live like this, that Harrington is the only one here to enjoy it. Billy’s used to money being tight, to saving and skipping and when corner’s need to be cut, to them always being cut for him. This is--he doesn’t even have words. It’s just the kind of wealth that he can’t ever imagine having or knowing. 

He doesn’t linger in the room, which feels vacant despite the wall paper and all the stuff in it. Harrington had said he doesn’t like sleeping upstairs when the house is empty, but Billy knows what a room people don’t live in looks like, and this is fucking that. He wonders when the last time Harrington slept in his bed was. He grabs the clothes and jogs back down the stairs.

“Here,” he says, tossing them at Harrington. For lack of anything better to do, he sits on the coffee table and waits.

Harrington peels his shirt off with a wince--it must hurt his shoulder. There’s more cuts on his skin than just that, but they’re smaller, pink tinged and healing. He’s got bruises, too, and Billy wonders again what those fucking things were, what they’d done to Harrington before Billy had gotten there.

His gaze lingers, too, not on the cuts and bruises, but on the smooth pale expanse of Harrington’s skin, the softness of his stomach, the lines of his ribs and hips. Billy swallows hard and when he flicks his eyes up he meets Harrington’s gaze. A flush spreads again over Harrington’s cheek, down his throat, across his chest. Billy can’t look away, drags his teeth over his bottom lip and just stares.

Harrington clears his throat, then pulls the t-shirt on over his head. It breaks whatever spell had been cast over Billy. He cuts his gaze away, stands up and walks into the kitchen while Harrington changes into the sweatpants. He’s not sure why, he’s seen every fucking inch of Harrington’s skin in the locker room, but this feels different, in his house, with the memory of Harrington shivering under Billy’s touch so recent.

When Billy walks back in after washing his hands for the nine millionth time, Harrington’s asleep. His breathing is even and he’s curled up on the couch. Billy can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth, or the way he finds a throw blanket and tosses it over Harrington.

Billy walks to the door, checks for his keys, and wanders back out into the night. He’s got his hand on his car door before he remembers Harrington’s car.

He creeps back into the house, finds Harrington’s discarded jeans and digs around in the pocket for the keys. It’s stupid, he thinks as he walks back outside, holding his crowbar again, to go back out to the woods tonight, but he knows he’s going to do it anyway. He doesn’t like the idea of Harrington trapped in his house with no car to help him get away.

So Billy walks. He walks with his crowbar clutched in his hand. He walks back out and hugs the edge of the road until he gets to the car. There’s no sounds around him, no swallowed-up feeling, no too thick air. Just the moon and normal nighttime chatter. Billy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and climbs into the car. 

He’s almost all the way back to Harrington’s house when he gets pulled over. He’s expecting Hopper, but it isn’t him.

“Son,” says a deputy Billy’s never seen before. “I have to ask myself, what’s a kid like you--” Trash, Todd had said the day before, and Billy feels like the implication is clear here, too-- “Doing in a neighborhood like this--” the cop pauses to motion to all the nice houses around them, “Driving a car this nice and covered in blood?”

Billy is not _covered_ in blood. There’s just some blood on him. “It’s my friend’s car,” he says, his jaw tight. “I’m bringing it back now.”

“And I’m Santa,” the cop says. “Get out of the car and give me the keys, son. We’re going back downtown.”

_Son_. Billy grits his teeth. They’ll call his dad. He’s fucked. Still, he gets out of the car, makes sure he locks it, gives the keys to the cop and then gets put in the back of his cruiser. Billy shuts his eyes against the heat behind them, against the cresting wave of panic, and thinks that he should’ve just fucking gone home.

They get to the station and Billy’s not quite arrested, apparently. The cop is new and everyone clucks at him when he drags Billy through the door. Billy’s not even fighting him. He’s so fucking tired, every inch of him, he feels like the fucking high school kid that he is, like he fought monsters tonight, like he’s going to get his ass beat when he gets home, like he’s scared of too many things all at once, like he doesn’t have the energy.

He gets shoved in a cell to wait for someone to figure this shit out. They don’t ask him his name. They know him. He puts his back against the wall, slides to sit on the floor, lets his head hang between his shoulders and thinks _fuck_. He’s fucked. All the fight’s gone out of him and he’s just scared and _fucked_.

He doesn’t know how long it is before he drifts out of his half sleep to the sound of heavy footsteps. Heart in his throat, stomach bottoming out, Billy scrabbles to his feet.

It’s not his dad, though. It’s Hopper. He looks tired, Billy thinks. Hopper looks him up and down. “Jesus, kid.”

“I didn’t steal that car,” Billy says. “Did you call my dad?”

“I know you didn’t steal the car,” Hopper says. “And nobody called your dad.”

Billy feels his shoulders sag in relief and then Hopper’s opening the door. “I’m going to take you home.”

“My car is at--”

“I know,” Hopper says. “But I think we’ll all feel better if when the door to your house opens I explain a bit about why you’re late.”

Billy swallows hard. “Ok,” he says, because he doesn’t think it’s going to help, but he’s a little bit grateful, too.

“I’ll have Harrington pick you up for school in,” Hopper glances at his watch. “Four hours.”

It’s 3am? Shit. 

Hopper drives him home. He’s got a hand resting on Billy’s shoulder when he rings the doorbell. He must be able to feel Billy on the edge of shaking. He must be able to feel the fear pouring off him. Feel the way his shoulders tighten, tense, defensive, when his dad finally opens the door.

His dad looks at Hopper and then at Billy. “What did you do?” he asks Billy, voice low, dark and mean. “Officer,” he says quickly, a little more polite. “What did my son do?”

“Chief, actually,” Hopper says. Billy’s dad’s mouth twitches. “I’m sorry for getting Billy home so late. He was a witness to something that happened tonight and I needed to get his statement, but it was a while before I could get to him.”

“Were you involved in this incident?” Billy’s dad asks, his gaze on Billy hard.

“No, dad, I--”

“Absolutely not,” Hopper says, cutting Billy off. “Wrong place wrong time. He witnessed a small attempted robbery, but we’re a good town and I take wrongdoing here seriously. Can’t have anyone getting away with anything,” Hopper says, and Billy thinks the words sound loaded. “Bad people in my town are a problem,” Hopper continues, and when Billy glances at him he’s staring his dad dead in the face. “And I take care of the problems here in Hawkins.”

His dad’s smile looks tight. “Of course,” he says. “I’m glad Billy could be helpful.”

“You have a good night, Mr. Hargrove,” Hopper says. “Billy, I’m sorry about the trouble. You said your friend Steve can pick you and Max up in the morning?” Billy nods, wordless, feels his dad’s gaze on him. “That’s good,” Hopper says. “I’ll be at basketball. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he pauses, and again the words sound loaded, “Can’t wait to see how you look on the court.”

And then he’s gone, getting into his car and driving away, the keys to Billy’s Camaro in his hand. 

“Go to bed,” Billy’s dad says, his voice tight. Billy steps past him into the house and his dad gives him a good shove. “I said move,” he snaps, and Billy walks faster, shuts his door--but doesn’t slam it--between himself and his dad and falls the fuck asleep. 

~

The sight of Steve Harrington pulling up in front of his house the next morning in Billy’s fucking car is--weird. It makes something curl hot and good way down in Billy’s stomach, but it also makes him feel a little possessive. Susan is keeping Max home, something about a fever, so it’s just Billy waiting for him.

“You want to drive?” Harrington asks through the rolled down window when Billy walks up.

“Are you going to crash my fucking car because of your precious baby ankle?” Billy asks.

“No. It was fine this morning.”

“Then you can drive,” Billy says, not sure why it’s ok with him. He just liked the fucking way that Harrington looks behind the wheel of the Camaro like that. Billy gets in his car and looks over at Harrington, who grins at him, but it looks a little tired. 

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” Billy says. “Some fucking little shit called me up late at night to rescue his babysitter and then I went out in the woods and some dogs whose faces opened up were trying to eat the babysitter, but I killed them. And then I drove the babysitter to his _palace_ and went back to get his car, but almost got _arrested_ for it. Crazy, right?”

Harrington’s focused on driving, staring straight ahead. “So what I’m saying, Harrington, is what the fuck happened last night?”

“It was nothing.”

Billy shifts, turns in the seat so he’s facing Harrington, back to the window. “Now, see,” he says. “See I have a fucking problem with that. Because the last time you lied to my face like that, the last time you fucking lied to me like that, I beat your face in. And if you’re thinking that I won’t do it again because I didn’t let you get eaten last night, then you might be even fucking dumber than you look.”

“Billy--”

“Steve,” Billy interrupts. “What I’m saying is, I fucking saw them. Don’t lie to my face. Just tell me.”

So Harrington tells him. About gates and monsters--demodogs, apparently--about Hopper’s daughter, about almost dying, about everything. When he’s done, they’re just pulling into the school. When he lets go of the steering wheel his hands are shaking, his whole body is. He’s breathing too hard. Billy has spent enough of his life afraid to know what it looks like when someone panics. He leans across the space between them, cards his fingers through the hair at the base of Harrington’s neck and tugs. “Look at me,” he says, voice hard edged and firm. Harrington does.

Billy presses their foreheads together. “We’re at school,” he says. “It’s morning. We’re going to school and I’m not gonna let you get eaten.”

It takes a second, but Harrington’s breathing evens out. He’s so close to Billy. Billy fucking wants to eat him alive, maybe, to crawl inside Harrington’s space and never goddamn leave it. “Or beat my face in?” Harrington asks, half a joke.

“Jury’s still out on that,” Billy murmurs, pulling away a little bit, letting his hand fall from Harrington’s hair. Harrington’s gaze flicks to his lips, then back to his eyes, then back to his lips. Billy finds he cannot put any more space between them. Billy wants to thank Harrington for telling him the truth. It’s something that’s in relatively short fucking supply in Billy’s life, but he doesn’t really know how to.

A knock on the window has them both jumping out of their fucking skin. When Billy looks up, it Nancy Wheeler. They both get out of the car. “What,” she hisses, “Is going on?”

“We were just tal--” Harrington starts.

Nancy rolls her eyes so hard that Billy wonders if it hurts her. “I don’t care what the two of you were doing,” she says, then pauses, “Well actually--no, more important things happening right now. They’re back?”

“I know about the dogs,” Billy says. Nancy blinks at him. “You don’t need to speak in code.”

“Oh,” Nancy says. “That’s actually great. So maybe you can tell me what’s going on?” 

“We aren’t actually sure,” Harrington says. “That’s the problem.”

“Why were you out there alone?” Nancy asks him, crossing her arms. “You’re an idiot.”

Billy blinks. “She’s got a point,” he says. “Why the fuck were you out there alone when you knew what was out there, too?”

Harrington won’t look at either of them all of a sudden. “I thought--” he starts, then stops. “I honestly thought I was imagining them?” Billy stares at him and Nancy brings a hand to her mouth. “Not imagining them, exactly, but like--I don’t know, like self fulfilling nightmares? I thought the kids didn’t really see anything. That it was a dog and I’d just scared them--”

“Oh, Steve,” Nancy says softly. She reaches out and then doesn’t touch him, her hand hanging in the space between them like she doesn’t know if she should.

Billy steps closer to Harrington, presses their shoulders together. He feels Harrington sag against him. “I’m sorry,” Harrington says. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No,” Nancy says softly. “You aren’t. I should have--” she pauses. “I should have been there.”

Billy feels like he’s witnessing a private moment, but he also feels like there’s no fucking universe in which he walks away from Harrington right now. He wonders when that happened. It’s been like, three fucking days of chaos and Harrington is driving his car and Billy’s standing here like he belongs and the weirdest fucking thing is that he thinks he really _does_ belong.

“So what do we do now?” Harrington asks.

“We save the world,” Nancy says, something a little wry in the corner of her smile. “Again, obviously.”

Billy hadn’t ever really thought he’d _like_ Nancy Wheeler as a person, but he’s reevaluating a lot of what he’d thought about Hawkins this morning, so he might as well add that to the list.

The three of them walk into school and have a normal fucking day. It’s that, maybe, that makes the night so hard.

~

After school, Harrington calls Hopper who explains that he has a plan. Billy doesn’t hear most of the conversation, he just hears the calm insistence that they’re going _back in_ , that Harrington and the kids should all stay home and wait to hear what happens.

“Yeah,” Nancy says. “That’s not how this is going to happen,” and then she takes out a pristine notebook--as she flips through it, Billy sees she has a a _table of contents_ \--and opens to a blank page. Billy wonders what she’ll title this page in the table of fucking contents, but realizes she’ll probably just tear it out. “They’re going to need something to keep those things busy,” Nancy says. She draws a rectangle on the notebook paper, labels it _lab_. “Jonathan and I will go here,” she puts an N+J on the notebook. “And then Steve you can go here,” she puts an S.

“He’s not going alone,” Billy says, glancing up from where he’s tapping out a cigarette. “I’ll go with him.”

On the side of the rectangle, in the middle of where she’s doodled a few trees, Nancy adds +B.

Billy finds he can’t stop looking at it, like he’s some tiny little middle school girl. _S+B_. Billy drags his tongue over his lower lip, lights the cigarette and tries to focus.

“So we’re agreed,” Nancy says, voice soft. “We’re going to keep them busy?”

“Yeah,” Billy says. “Sunset, right?”

Nancy nods.

~

Billy’s finally got a fucking walkie, but it’s dim comfort as he and Harrington follow Nancy and Jonathan’s cars past the cut open fence of the lab. They haven’t told Hopper they’re coming, Billy thinks that was fucking stupid, but he also thinks that Hopper would just yell at them and he doesn’t want to fucking deal with that.

When Billy had tried to conceptualize what a lab that brought monsters from another dimension into the world would look like, he’d pictured big and dark and scary. Hawkins lab, looming above the treeline, is somehow bigger and darker and scarier than he’d thought it could be. Next to him, Harrington’s breathing goes a little shaky. Billy can’t tear his eyes away from it, curls his fingers around the crowbar in his hands a little bit tighter.

They all pile out of the cars. They’re four teenagers, Billy thinks. This is fucking crazy. “Does everybody understand the plan?” Nancy asks. “Stay off the walkie unless you really need something. We don’t want Hopper to know we’re here unless he has to.”

Billy has a rough idea that Hopper and his daughter are inside that place. He doesn’t really know why, but Nancy seems pretty convinced they’re going to handle something and handle it well, and Billy’s spent a lot of this day learning just the type of iron Nancy’s spine must be made of. Her gaze is level and clear when she looks at each of them, but her grip on Jonathan’s hand looks painful. When she speaks, her voice is calm. “Good luck,” she says quietly. “See you all in a few hours.”

~

Billy and Harrington walk along the perimeter that Nancy drew out for them on her makeshift map. Billy knows that something is coming when that swallowed-up feeling creeps over him. It’s like they make the air harder to breathe. “You ready?” Harrington asks him.

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder. They might fucking die tonight. Billy reaches out and grabs Harrington’s hand, laces their fingers together, squeezes. “Yeah,” he says.

And then the monsters come.

Billy swings with his crowbar, bashes into them when they get close enough to hit. There’s more of them than just two, but Harrington moves with that bat like he’s fucking done it before which, he has, actually. Billy swings and tastes adrenaline like copper in the back of his mouth, hears the crunch of leaves, hears Harrington swear and hit and stumble and get back up.

Those teeth, Billy finds out when they graze his arm, fucking _hurt_. Billy bashes that one until what he imagines must be its brains are leaking out all over the ground.

“Billy!” Harrington shouts, and Billy turns around in time for one to crash, feet first, into his chest and throw him to the ground. He looks up at it as its face opens and wishes he’d fucking kissed Harrington instead of holding his goddamn hand.

It doesn’t eat his face, though, even though Billy thinks that’s what it’s going to do. Harrington nails it with the bat so hard it goes flying. It doesn’t get back up. Billy scrambles to his feet, looks around. They’re alone. There’s nothing else coming. He’s breathing hard, he reaches for Harrington, grabs him, pulls him close.

With inches between them, Billy can smell sweat and fear, but also Harrington’s shampoo. He presses their foreheads together. “Are you ok?” he asks, but he shouts it and he has to really think about lowering his voice. “Are you ok?” he demands, dragging his hands down Harrington’s arms, over his sides. “Are you hurt, Harrington? Jesus, _say something_.”

Harrington pulls back from him a little bit. “I’m ok,” he says. “Are you?”

Billy shakes his shoulders. His chest is sore from where the thing had landed on him, but other than that he feels fine. “I’m good,” he says. “I think I’m good.”

Harrington nods. They’re just standing there, staring at each other. “I wonder what’s--”

Billy doesn’t let him finish. He tilts his head and presses his lips to Harrington’s. The kiss is hot and desperate and too much teeth, Billy’s hands scrabbling for purchase at Harrington’s sides, trying to get him fucking closer. They’re alive. They didn’t die.

An unholy sound makes Billy yank back, spinning and throwing his arm out, putting himself between Harrington and whatever the fuck it is. But there’s nothing there, just that sound rippling once through the forest, then choking out slowly, like a gurgle, like it’s dying.

“They did it,” Nancy’s voice comes over the walkie, suddenly. “It’s over. They did it. Let’s go home.”

Harrington looks around them at the dead things, at Billy. He licks his lips. “Billy and I will be right there,” he says. He’s looking at the lab, at something outside of it. “You go home, Nancy. We’ll be right behind you.” He drops the walkie from his side, looks at Billy. “I have an idea,” he says. He grabs Billy’s hand. They run toward the lab.

~

“Arson,” Billy says, a little dumbly, a few minutes later. “Your idea is arson?”

Harrington shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. Then: “Actually no. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. Do you have a lighter?”

Billy doesn’t really know if a building like this will burn to the ground, but he still helps Harrington tip over all the giant tubs of gasoline and oil and whatever the fuck other chemicals there are. He still steps back a few feet with him. Billy flicks his lighter out of his pocket and stares up at the lab and wonders if any of those chemicals will explode.

He leans over and kisses Harrington again, just in case. If he’s going to die right now, he’s not going to have any fucking regrets about it. Harrington smiles into his mouth.

Billy throws the lighter. They run.

~

When Billy and Harrington finally make it back to the fence, breathing hard, clutching each other’s hands, Hopper is there with his red and blue lights on. His daughter is nowhere to be found. Nancy and Jonathan’s car is gone.

“I just got here,” Hopper’s saying into the radio at his shoulder. “My best guess is arson. This lab’s been empty for months. No way it just catches on fire like that.” He looks exhausted, run ragged, but like Nancy was earlier, his eyes and voice are calm. 

He must see the smudge of sooty dirt on Harrington’s cheek, he must smell the gasoline on them. “Just get here when you can,” Hopper says into his radio. “This thing is going down. I’ll arrest anyone I find on scene for questioning,” he pauses and he holds Billy’s gaze when he says the next words, “I’m walking around, but I don’t see anyone here at all.”

Billy takes the hint. He yanks Harrington along behind him, still clutching at his hand, and they scramble toward Harrington’s car. “I’ll drive,” Billy snaps. “You drive too fucking slow,” and he grabs the keys and they peel out of there, leave Hopper in the rearview mirror, the lab slowly collapsing in on itself behind him.

When they finally get to Harrington’s house, Billy can’t tell whether he wants to laugh or cry. Harrington’s shaking a little bit and Billy’s surprised to find he is, too. It’s the adrenaline, he thinks a little distantly, the sudden drop in headrush after a night full of running and fighting and burning shit down.

Billy doesn’t really know how they make it into the house or up the fucking stairs, but they do. They stumble into a bathroom and Billy’s laughing because it’s easier. “We need to get out of these clothes,” Billy says. “We should burn them. They’re evidence if someone finds out we were there.” 

“I have a fireplace,” Harrington says.

Billy nods, peels off his jacket and his henley, lets both fall to the floor. He looks up to see how bad his skin looks, the leftover patchwork of bruising from his dad, some new cuts and scrapes and fresh purpleblack splotches from tonight, but then he meets Harrington’s gaze in the mirror, and Billy goes absolutely still.

Harrington’s cheeks are flushed, from running, from burning, from--from something else, too, Billy thinks. Harrington moves behind Billy, presses his chest to Billy’s back. He’s taller, Billy thinks. He’s known it since they met, but he’s so aware of it now, Harrington pressed up behind him.

Harrington’s hand falls to Billy’s hip. He digs his fingers into skin, presses his nails in. Billy hisses a little, but not really in pain. He’s watching Harrington in the mirror, the slow slide of his hand from Billy’s hip over his stomach. The half moon imprints from his nails stand out bright red on Billy’s hip.

Harrington traces his hand higher, pressing against Billy from behind. Billy can feel Harrington against his back, half hard. Harrington’s hand moves up, up, up, he brushes the pad of his thumb across Billy’s nipple and Billy makes a soft, desperate sound, pushes his ass back against Harrington’s dick, tilts his head to the side.

Billy’s eyes go half-lidded when Harrington leans in close, presses hot, open mouthed kisses along the side of Billy’s neck, but Billy keeps them open enough so that he can watch, so that he can meet Harrington’s gaze in the mirror as he drags his teeth across Billy’s skin, bite down a little, soothe over it with his tongue.

“What are you doing?” Billy asks him as Harrington’s hand slides lower, back to his hip, along the waistband of his jeans.

“Do you want me to stop?” Harrington asks.

“No,” Billy murmurs, presses back against Harrington just to listen to him moan at the friction.

“Fuck,” Harrington hisses, and Billy gets to watch his cheeks heat even more, gets to watch the way he scrabbles with both fingers to get Billy’s jeans open, gets to watch as Harrington pulls Billy’s cock out and wraps his fingers around it.

“Jesus,” Billy says, breath catching on a moan as Harrington starts to stroke. “Fuck,” he echoes. He can’t keep watching in the mirror, he can’t look away. He presses himself back against Harrington.

It doesn’t take long for Billy to come apart. He’d be embarrassed about it if he didn’t feel so fucking good, if the waves of pleasure coursing through him didn’t make him feel like he can’t keep his thoughts together. He comes into Harrington’s hand, gasping his name, holding Harrington’s gaze in the mirror.

Harrington’s still hard against him and Billy turns around and undoes Harrington’s jeans with one hand, just to watch his eyes go wide. “You,” Billy murmurs, “Are going to fuck my mouth and it’s going to be the best fucking thing you’ve ever felt,” and he presses his lips to Harrington’s just for a second before he drops to his knees. 

Harrington comes with his hand in Billy’s hair, half sobbing Billy’s name and whenBilly stands back up to kiss him, Harrington licks into his mouth like he’s chasing the taste of himself on Billy’s tongue.

They kiss, lazy and deep and a little bit desperate in the stupid bathroom until Billy pulls away. “We need to shower,” he says. “And we need to burn our clothes. And then I need to sleep for an entire month.”

Harrington laughs, presses his forehead against Billy’s. “Good thing my parents won’t be back for a while,” he murmurs. “And we don’t have school tomorrow.”

Billy laughs. They shower. They burn the clothes. They crawl into Harrington’s bed and fall asleep wrapped around each other, consequences be damned, because they saved the world and burned down a government lab and they both, Billy thinks, deserve a decent fucking night of sleep.

~

It’s next Monday and his dad isn’t supposed to be home for two more hours, which is why Billy’s on the counter in the kitchen talking on the phone with _Steve_.

“I can come over tonight once everyone’s asleep,” Billy’s saying. “I’ll sneak out. I just have to make sure I’m back to get Max in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” Steve answers. He’s chewing in Billy’s ear, eating cereal maybe. It should be gross, but it isn’t. “Dustin’s going to be over for a while though. He says he needs to get to know you.”

Billy snorts. “Why?” he asks. “Because we’re fucking?”

“Don’t be crude,” Steve answers in a very good impersonation of Nancy’s voice. “Because he loves me and if you want to love me than he has to love you, obviously.”

Billy chokes on his cup of coffee, but it’s laughter, not panic that makes him do it. “What if I don’t want to love you?” he asks, kicking his foot against the cabinet.

“Don’t lie to my face,” Steve says, now doing a pretty decent impression of Billy. “I’ll beat your face in.”

“We’re on the phone, dipshit,” Billy says. “I’m lying to your _ear_.”

He’s listening to the way it sounds when Steve laughs, picturing the way it makes his whole face light up. That’s why he doesn’t hear the door open. That’s why he doesn’t know his dad is there until he walks into the kitchen and sees Billy, laughing and saying something to Steve, sitting on the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee.

“What,” his dad says, voice dark and dangerous, “Do you think you’re doing, boy?”

Billy drops the phone. “Dad--” he says. “Dad--I was--”

“Get your ass off my counter,” his dad growls. “And then pick up my phone and hang it up.”

Billy moves like he’s in a dream, slow, detached. “I have to go,” he says into the phone.

“Billy--are you ok? What’s--” Steve’s saying. Billy hangs up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Billy says.

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” his dad says. “As soon as I change out of my work clothes. Do not move from this spot, Billy.” It’s a promise and a threat and Billy stands there and watches his dad in his button up shirt and khakis walk down the hall toward his bedroom. He’s shaking, he thinks dimly, because he’s fucked.

Billy shuts his eyes and breathes out through his nose. He pictures California, endless miles of beach. He pictures the way Steve would look with a swimsuit on, sprawled on a towel to get some sun.

Minutes pass. Footsteps come down the hall. Heavy, ones that Billy would know anywhere. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, opening his eyes before his dad can see him looking weak.

“I’m sure you are,” his dad answers. “But you need to learn--”

He’s cut off by the sound of a knock at the door.

Billy trails after his father when he goes to answer it. It’s Hopper. Billy feels himself go very, very still. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hopper says. “But I’m going to need Billy to come with me.”

“We were in the middle of something,” his dad says. “Can’t this wait?”

“No,” Hopper says, voice short. “It can’t. Billy, you’re going to need to come with me. Do I need to put you in cuffs or will you come willingly?”

Billy feels like he has whiplash. “What--”

“You’re under suspicion for that fire the other night. Now either you come with me now or I’m going to have to put you in cuffs.” Billy walks to the door, glances at his dad, uncertain. Hopper adds, “You can follow us to the station if you want.”

“No,” his dad says. “I just got off work and it’s been a long day. You can call me if I absolutely have to come down there.”

Something in Hopper’s face goes tight and angry, but he nods. “C’mon, Billy,” Hopper says. Billy follows him out to his truck, gets in the passenger’s seat. Hopper drives away. “Sorry,” Hopper says, voice tired. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

“What?” Billy says, blank, detached.

“Steve called me,” Hopper says and his voice is gentle, which is freaking Billy out a little bit. “He said he needed a favor and I figure I owe you both one after last week.” Billy swallows hard, feels a little less detached, blinks at Hopper. “So I’m going to take you to Steve’s house and then you’re going to give me a statement about the shit your dad does to you--”

“He doesn’t--”

“Don’t,” Hopper says, voice sharp. “Don’t bother. I know what that looks like and I see it all over you. I meant what I said. Bad people in my town are a problem and I handle problems. Assholes who beat their kids are bad people.” Billy swallows again, but eventually, he nods. “Good,” Hopper says. 

When they get to Steve’s, Hopper looks at him. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” he says, which Billy understands as giving them some space. “I need to make a few radio calls.”

Billy can’t work up the energy to be mad at Steve when he pulls open the door. “I’m sorry,” is the first thing Steve says. “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t--I know we haven’t talked about it, but I couldn’t--just leave you--”

Billy pushes past him, shuts the door behind him. Steve runs his hands through his own hair. It makes him look stupid. “I’m so fucking sorry, Billy. I just--”

“Thank you,” Billy says, and his voice catches. He presses his back against the wall and slides down, sitting on the floor. Steve is in front of him in a second, wraps his arms around Billy and Billy presses his face into Steve’s neck, feels tears behind his eyes, but doesn’t cry or let them fall. He just fucking sits there and breathes, lets Steve hold him until there’s a knock on the door and they both stand up.

Hopper comes in and Steve is holding Billy’s hand. His eyes flick to it for a minute, but when he meets Billy’s gaze there’s something a lot like a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You ready to make that statement?” Hopper asks.

Billy thinks about swinging a crowbar at monsters, hitting them until they’re dead. This is kind of like that, he decides. “Yeah,” he says. “I fucking am.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @lymricks come give me prompts or scream with me about the west wing and these two or probably anything else. I love co-screaming.


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